


Bucky, No

by Le_Rouret, sheraiah



Series: Sarasotaverse [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes has a filthy mouth, Bucky Barnes is a little shit, Catholic Steve Rogers, Florida, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Retirement, Sassy Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers has a filthy mouth too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 19:56:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8340715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Rouret/pseuds/Le_Rouret, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheraiah/pseuds/sheraiah
Summary: Hey, kids! Let’s just pretend Helmut Zemo never existed, ‘kay? That’ll make this much easier.Forced into retirement by the Accords, Steve Rogers finds himself (1) promoted up to his actual rank for his age and time in the service, (2) responsible for the voluntarily surrendered POW/war criminal James B. Barnes, and (3) faced with trying to figure out just what the hell he’s supposed to do next.Steve tries his best. But Bucky does not handle retirement quite the way Steve anticipated.Mostly humor, but with a little bit of angst, because, you know, Bucky. Rated for bad language, booze, strippers, and the inappropriate use of craft supplies.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's always a scary thing, collaborating with another fanfic writer, especially when both authors REALLY love the same characters. This time, though, it totally worked for us. 
> 
> This will be part of a collection of vignettes about Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, retired and trying to figure out how to be civilians. It will be mostly humor, and some angst too, but we promise we won't hurt them too much. Let's face it; Marvel's done enough to them, right?
> 
> Enjoy our tongue-in-cheek, somewhat AU, definitely twisted ideas about what Steve and Bucky would do, living in a retirement community!

 

 

**BUCKY, NO**

 

            It was a common belief among most of the residents of Palacios Del Mar in Sarasota that Retired General Steven G. Rogers did not use bad language. This was patently untrue, especially at this moment when he was employing reprehensible vulgarity regarding one Retired Command Sergeant-Major James B. Barnes, commonly known as Bucky, or in this case, “That _fucking_ asshole.”

            Mr. Moretti, the former owner of number 124 Bermuda Court, had held a massive yard sale prior to moving back up to New Jersey to be closer to his grandchildren. Steve bought an impressive five foot stuffed marlin, currently mounted above his Danish Modern sofa, to make his rather Spartan living room look more “Floridian.” He’d had no idea what Bucky had bought until he opened his refrigerator after the Zoning Commission’s afternoon meeting, to see plastic adhesive googly eyes stuck to every damn food item he owned.

            Apparently, Bucky had bought some of the late Mrs. Moretti’s craft supplies at the yard sale. _Dammit._ So _that’s_ what he’d been doing, rummaging around the plastic tubs with Ellie Allen and Sabra Fetterman. Steve felt betrayed. He’d thought Ellie and Sabra _liked_ him.

            Chances were, they didn’t realize that “poor Mr. Barnes,” with his shaggy hair and sad-sack clothing, disguised a love of practical jokes beneath his public former POW façade. How could they, when Steve was usually the only victim in the entire neighborhood?

            Steve pounded on the common wall between their duplexes. He could hear, very faintly, the music from Mario Kart through the drywall. “BUCKY! GET THESE EYES OFF MY FOOD!”

            The only response was a delighted cackle over the sound of Donkey Kong taking a header into the lava.

**O*O*O*O**

            The string of duplexes on Ponte Vedra Lane squared up neatly with manicured lawns, even lines of hibiscus bushes, and the occasional palm tree. Steve’s half of the duplex was painted a nice, neutral beige. Bucky pushed the limits of the Homeowner’s Association covenants by painting his a blue that was not … quite … pastel. With a fire-engine-red door. Steve, as the secretary of the Homeowner’s Association, persuaded the rest of the committee to let it go. He was also frequently called upon to ask “that Mr. Barnes” to trim his fruit trees and not let the bougainvillea take up quite so much of the fence separating his half of the property from Mr. and Mrs. Goudelock’s immaculately landscaped yard.

            Steve tried. He really did. His own yard, front and back, was a tidy green square with a well-scrubbed front stoop and an orderly back porch sporting an awning and a grill, pristine beneath its shiny black cover. Bucky, however, had claimed the half of the duplex that had all the fruit trees, and both front and back were loaded: Two orange, one each of lemon, lime, mango, and papaya, and two carambola. Steve would frequently hear of Bucky trading fruit for cookies and pastries down at the club house. One time, he played an entire poker game, using oranges as chips. Steve thinks he lost on purpose. Bucky knew Mr. Lipkowitz didn’t have any orange trees in _his_ yard.

            The Library Board of Directors meeting, unsurprisingly, ran late. Steve eased his practical silver sedan down the streets of the retirement community, making sure he never exceeded 25 miles per hour. He waved at Ellie and Sabra, who were enjoying a gossip over their side fences. They waved back, smiling.

            Turning the corner from the single-unit dwellings on Sanibel Lane onto the row of duplexes on Ponte Vedra, he braked suddenly. Mr. McTavish had stepped in front of Steve’s Impala, waving his arms and glaring. Steve rolled down his window, putting on his Secretary of the Homeowner’s Association hat for the old man’s benefit. “What’s wrong, Mr. McTavish?” he called.

            “You fix that disgraceful display on your front yard right now, Rogers!” hollered Mr. McTavish. “Mabel had her Christian Women’s Group over today and they were all shocked – shocked! Clean that up!”

            “Uh,” said Steve. “Okay?”

            “It’s scandalous!” Mr. McTavish continued, shaking one gnarled finger at Steve. “What were you thinking, young man?”

            “I wasn’t – I’ll clean it right up,” said Steve quickly, wondering what the hell Mr. McTavish was talking about. Had Bucky’s lime tree fallen over? It had started listing dangerously to the side after the last tropical storm, and Bucky was currently propping it up with an elaborate system of tie-downs and bungee cords.

            He pulled in his driveway. The lawn looked okay on his side – on Bucky’s too, really, despite the wild growth of orchid-strewn fruit trees and overgrown flowers, Bucky was careful to keep the lawn raked and trimmed. Bucky’s Harley was out, but as long as he didn’t keep it in the driveway overnight, it wasn’t considered a violation _per se_ , and –

            Steve saw the lawn gnomes.

            “Bucky, no,” he groaned.

            He had heard the phrase “ _in flagrante delicto_ ” before, and that certainly applied to the little grinning concrete figures in this case. There was no way in the world any of the members of Mrs. McTavish’s Christian Women’s Group could possibly have mistaken the poses for leap frog.

            He opened the garage door and parked, careful to not scrape his 1946 Indian. He got out, closed the car door, and took a deep, cleansing breath. He would be calm about this. He would walk equably into Bucky’s half of the duplex and explain, steadily and politely, that one did _not_ have garden decorations engage in public same-sex relations across the street from two of the most conservative Protestants in the entire city of Sarasota.

            No, fuck it. He’d go in guns blazing.

            He closed the garage door and went into his side of the duplex, putting his briefcase down on the clean, bright linoleum. He cast a suspicious eye through his kitchen for googly eyeballs, but didn’t see any right away. That was a relief.

            He passed through the living room, noting silence on the other side of the shared wall, but there was the hint of music – something loud and obnoxious, a man screaming and guitars wailing – coming from their back yards. He took a deep breath, set his jaw, clenched his fists, and stalked out to his patio.

            His side of the back yard was bright and clear and neat. Bucky’s was a riot of fruit trees, orchids, an outdoor bar in a hand-me-down chickee hut, strings of colored, mismatched Christmas lights from Goodwill, tiki torches, bird feeders, and a big, luxurious hammock. Steve’s best friend from childhood was swinging casually in it, clad only in a pair of ratty board shorts and cheap pink sunglasses, metal arm glinting in the afternoon sunlight as he raised a skull-shaped plastic goblet to his lips to sip through a twisty straw at a cloudy green concoction.

            Steve licked his lips involuntarily. Bucky made _awesome_ margaritas.

            Shaking himself back into his bad mood, Steve said as severely as he could: “BUCKY.”

            “Sir yes sir,” said Bucky, saluting him with the margarita. He took another sip. “Like my artwork? I’m thinking of going into sculpture now.”

            “Do you realize,” said Steve through gritted teeth, “that Mrs. McTavish has her Christian Women’s Group at her house TODAY?”

            “Well, yeah,” said Bucky. “Why d’you think I did it?”

            “In all fairness,” said Steve, as calmly as he could, “I know the McTavishes have had it in for you since we moved in three years ago. I don’t blame you for wanting to annoy them, but – “

            Bucky sat up a little and raised his sunglasses. Bright gray-blue eyes twinkled at him. “Were they mad?” he asked eagerly.

            “Yes, they were mad!” said Steve. “Mr. McTavish was furious! Told me to clean it up right away!”

            “So did you?” Bucky put his sunglasses back on and took another sip of his drink.

            Steve breathed in through his nostrils, heavily, like a bull. “No. _You_ did it, _you_ fix it.”

            “No way, pal,” said Bucky insolently. “They’re in _your_ yard.”

            “ _You_ put them in those positions!”

            “They’re _your_ garden gnomes.”

            “ _You_ bought them!”

            “And I gave them to _you_.” Bucky had reached the end of his margarita, and the straw slurped against the bottom of the skull goblet. “You’re welcome.”

            “You crass, inconsiderate, shameless asshole,” said Steve, giving up. He threw his hands up into the air and turned around to go back inside. “Fine. Have it your way.”

            “What’s for dinner?” called Bucky after him. Steve slammed the patio door so hard it rattled.

            By the time Steve had changed into khaki shorts and a polo shirt, he had reached a state of angry calm. He was _not_ grilling an extra steak for Bucky tonight. If that asshole wanted Steve to bear the brunt of his childish jokes, he could eat fruit and Cheetos for dinner for all Steve cared. He stomped out to the front stoop to put the garden gnomes back where they had been before, innocently guarding his aloe and bromeliads and crown-of-thorns, only to see them where they belonged, grinning impudently up at him through his perennials with their rosy cheeks and red pointy hats.

            Not a homoerotic sculpture group to be seen.

            Bucky was sitting on his stoop, two feet away. He was barefoot, and had put on a pair of jeans so holey they were barely held together by the pockets and seams, and wore a grease-stained wife-beater. He was hand-rolling a cigarette, eyes hidden by the messy fall of his dark hair. By his side was a twelve-pack of rather good, and certainly expensive, imported craft beer.

            Steve sat down on the stoop. The cool of the concrete seeped up through his shorts and the soles of his feet. He watched Bucky seal the cigarette and put it between his lips, pull out his lighter, and spark it up. He took a couple of puffs and Steve was transported back in time to Brooklyn, to their shitty little fire escape overlooking the docks, the smell of fish and garbage and Bucky’s cigarette smoke. He sighed and looked across the street to the McTavish’s house. The cluster of Cadillacs and Mercury Grand Marquises and Avalons was still crowded around their yard. Technically that was in violation of the homeowner’s association codes, but unlike Mr. McTavish, Steve was not an imperious dick. Parking was shit in this neighborhood.

            There was the familiar clink of Bucky’s metal fingers pulling two glass bottles out of the cardboard box. One of the surprising benefits of having a metal hand was that he could open beer bottles without a church key. It was a great time-saver.

            Bucky handed over a beer. Steve took it, took a deep draught. It was delicious. Maybe he’d grill two steaks after all.

 

**O*O*O*O**

            There are certain things that are shared in a small, private neighborhood like Palacios Del Mar Retirement Community. Lawn services, plumbers, Chinese restaurants that delivered, and most importantly, cleaning ladies. Steve felt very fortunate to have been able to secure Mrs. Uribres’ services for his and Bucky’s duplex. She was honest, conscientious, discreet, and only a tad more expensive than Maids To Go, which had caused some disturbances in the community before by employing cleaning ladies who were more known for their light fingers than their dusting.

            Mrs. Uribres visited the duplexes on Ponte Vedra Lane on Tuesdays, and Steve was always careful to prepare for her. He made sure his bed was stripped and that the dirty sheets and towels were in a heap by the laundry room for her to wash. His personal effects were put away, his shoes lined up in the closet so she could vacuum without difficulty, and his kitchen counters cleared. There was nothing in the way of Mrs. Uribres being able to clean Steve’s half of the duplex with the meticulous expertise for which she was celebrated.

            It wasn’t that Bucky didn’t appreciate Mrs. Uribres coming in to clean his place; it was just that he apparently figured, as long as she was cleaning, she might as well straighten up, too. After all, what else was a cleaning lady for but to pick up your clothes lumped on the floor, stack your growing pile of mail and magazines, and put your dirty dishes scattered throughout the house in the dishwasher? That’s what cleaning ladies were supposed to do, right?

            Steve never minded going over to Bucky’s on Tuesday evenings. It was the one day of the week that his half of the duplex didn’t look like it had been hit by a mortar. He swung by after his Sarasota Public Education Financial Oversight meeting with a six-pack of Mexican beer and some takeout burritos from their favorite taco truck. Bucky was playing Tank Commander on his PS4. Steve smiled. Bucky’s face had that same focused, abstracted expression on it he used to get when he was the Howling Commando’s sniper. Some things were hard to unlearn.

            He sat carefully next to Bucky on the dilapidated sofa. Bucky had bought it for twenty-five dollars from Goodwill, and you never knew when it would collapse beneath your weight. Bucky had apparently done some work on his ’69 Barracuda, because his clothes were liberally smeared with grease and dirt, and his fingernails were disgusting. But the carpet was vacuumed, the decrepit furniture polished, and Steve assumed the Egyptian cotton sheets on his ridiculously expensive Sleep Number bed were fresh as well. That bed, and the hammock in the back yard, were the only items of furniture Bucky bought new. Everything else looked like it had rolled in from an eviction sale in one of Sarasota’s seedier mobile home parks.

            Steve considerately waited until Bucky had destroyed the enemy tank battalion before handing over the burrito and a beer. Bucky settled back on the old couch, stretched his bare and very dirty feet out over the upended cable spool that served as a coffee table, and cracked open the bottle. Beer zithed down his throat. Steve glanced over and noticed he hadn’t shaved.

            “No golf today?” he asked.

            “Nope,” said Bucky, his mouth full of refried beans and pork. “Jim had a dentist appointment, and Howie’s thrown his back out. Gonna try tomorrow.”

            Steve smiled. Bucky only shaved before important events, like weddings or court dates or golf. He wondered if the Mass of Corpus Christi would count. Bucky was still technically as Catholic as Steve, but had not darkened the church door since coming in from Hydra. Steve assumed he hadn’t spent much time at church while he was busy being the Winter Soldier, either.

            “So I was wondering,” he said casually. Bucky shot him a suspicious side-eye. “Got a big, special event coming up at St. Martha’s. Corpus Christi. Father Ogenga has invited Monsignor O’Keefe from Epiphany to attend. The choir’s preparing some fancy Latin music, we’re calling in extra altar boys, the whole nine yards. Kind of a big deal.”

            Bucky mumbled something into his burrito. Steve, undeterred, ploughed on.

            “We’re thinking we’ll have an additional two hundred people show up, mostly from the smaller churches wanting to see the monsignor hold Mass.” He glanced at Bucky and said, “We could use some help setting up the extra chairs and parking.”

            Bucky chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “What night?”

            Steve smiled. “Setup’s the Saturday before the Mass. The eighteenth.”

            Bucky shook his head and downed a beer. He belched. “Can’t make it,” he said, and grabbed a churro.

            Steve stared. “Why not?” he demanded. “The one Saturday night I ask you to help – “

            “I’m busy, okay, Stevie?” said Bucky with a sigh, looking over at him. “Got a prior engagement.”

            Steve bristled. “If it’s one of your hook-ups – “

            “No, nothing like that,” said Bucky, flushing a little. “I’m going to Señora Uribres’ granddaughter’s Quinceañera.”

            Steve stared at him. Bucky stared back, taking a bite of Steve’s churro, having finished his own.

            “You got invited to Mrs. Uribres’ granddaughter’s Quinceañera?” he said disbelievingly. “You?”

            “Yeah, me,” said Bucky defensively. “Why the hell not?”

            “She didn’t invite _me_!”

            Bucky shifted a little, looking embarrassed. “Oh. She didn’t?”

            “Why should she invite _you_?” Steve demanded. “I make everything as easy for her as I can! I pick up my place for her so she can clean! You leave your shit everywhere! Why on earth would she invite you and not me?”

            “I guess ‘cause you don’t tip her in tequila?” suggested Bucky.

            Steve blinked. “You _what?_ ” he demanded.

            “Añejo,” admitted Bucky, finishing off Steve’s churro and opening another beer. “I’m telling you, pal. A Hamilton’s not bad, but a good bottle of top-shelf añejo tequila? That’ll open doors for you, Stevie.”

            “Tequila?” challenged Steve. “You give that sweet, middle aged lady _tequila?”_

“Giving some to her granddaughter too, as a Quinceañera present,” grinned Bucky, winking at Steve over the beer bottle.

            Steve sputtered, “ _What?!_ Bucky, no!”

            “Jesus, Stevie, calm down,” laughed Bucky. “I’m not giving her fucking tequila, you punk. Girl’s fifteen. I’m giving her _dad_ tequila. Poor sap’s gonna need it, don’t ya think?”

            “Bucky,” groaned Steve. “I can’t believe you.”

            “Yeah, yeah,” said Bucky, handing Steve the second controller. “Play Tank Commander with me. None of my buddies are online.”

            “Fine,” grumbled Steve. He still felt unfairly indignant that he hadn’t been invited. “So what _are_ you getting her?”

            “A two thousand dollar scholarship to the college of her choice,” said Bucky casually, setting up the game.

            Steve stared at him. “Really? Wow, Bucky, that’s almost thoughtf-“

            “Shut up,” muttered Bucky, and blew up Steve’s tank.

 

**O*O*O*O**

            **STEVE: _Where the hell are you?_**

**** **BUCKY: _19 hole 8=D_**

            Steve frowned down at his phone. That was Buckyspeak for the bar at the golf course. Steve knew that Bucky’s tee time had been eight AM, and it was now five PM. A round of golf with Bill, Howie, and Jim never took longer than four and a half or five hours. That meant Bucky had been sitting at the bar since at least one. Four hours of Bucky taking shots and flirting with the bartender didn’t concern Steve that much – Hydra’s serum, though inferior to Erskine’s, still prevented Bucky from succumbing to any sort of effects from drugs or alcohol. But his golf buddies were all over 65 and not used to the kind of pace Bucky could keep up, especially if there was tequila involved.

            Steve sighed. He might as well run interference, if not for Bucky, then at least for his golf buddies’ wives and livers.

            **STEVE: _Stay put. On my way._**

**** **STEVE: _Your buddies with you?_**

**** **BUCKY: _2_**

**** **STEVE: _How bad are they?_**

**** **BUCKY: _idk, fine_**

**** **STEVE: _Do we need an extraction plan?_**

**** **BUCKY: _jesus rogers get ur ass here n quit txtng, tryin 2 drink_**

            Steve’s jaw was starting to hurt from grinding his teeth. He should probably see someone about that.

 

            The Birdie and Bogie, known to Bucky and his golf buddies as the Nineteenth Hole, was in full swing when Steve arrived. He had to push his way through a throng of khaki-pleated, polo-wearing, handicap-discussing middle-aged men to get to the bar. Bucky was in his element, arms slung across Jim Allen’s and Howie Fetterman’s shoulders, leading them and everyone else at the bar in a rousing round of “All the Single Ladies.” Steve, himself in khaki pants and a polo, what he thought of as the Florida Retiree Uniform, didn’t warrant a second glance. Steve couldn’t call himself a sharp dresser by any stretch, but it still pained him to see the bright Hawaiian shirt and pink plaid Bermuda shorts, surmounted with a cockeyed tweed cap. Bucky, despite the wild originality of his habiliments, was accepted by familiarity. At least he had shaved.

            Steve pushed himself up to the bar. The two bartenders were dancing and laughing and singing along with the music as they took orders and poured, and Steve noticed that Bucky’s shot glass never seemed to be empty. The entire bar had picked up his infectious elation. That, at least, hadn’t changed at all since they had been young, and Steve couldn’t help but smile. Even after all this time and trauma, Bucky could still start a party.

            He tapped on Bucky’s left shoulder. The metal clanked under his finger. Bucky turned with a grin, his eyes alight. “Stevie!” he shouted over the din. “Have a tequila!”

            Steve honestly couldn’t think of a reason not to. “Okay,” he conceded, accepting the rather sticky, salty shot glass and knocking it back. Howie Fetterman, looking a little bleary about the eyes, yelled something that sounded like, “WOOO!” and clapped him on the shoulder with one gnarled hand. Steve hoped it hadn’t hurt him. Jim Allen was still bright and animated, and Steve guessed he could probably handle one or two more shots before his wife started plotting Bucky’s demise.

            “Glad you’re here!” shouted Bucky happily, ruffling Steve’s hair. “Place is on fire tonight!”

            “It’s only five,” Steve yelled back. Bucky looked nonplused.

            “Wow,” he roared over the din. “I have at least another six hours to get my buddies hammered!”

            “Bucky, no!” Steve said, shaking his head. “Jesus, Buck, come on.”

            “What?” Bucky grabbed a random shot glass of tequila off the bar and threw it back, then hugged his two golf buddies around their necks. “Jimmy and Howie! Rock stars!”

            “Wooo!” yelled Howie again, wobbling a little on his skinny legs. Jim was too busy flirting with the twenty-something bartender to even notice. Steve wondered how long it would take him to figure out his shirt was buttoned incorrectly, and decided he didn’t want to know the circumstances under which it had become unbuttoned in the first place.

            “They have to get home to their wives,” insisted Steve over the din. “They have to be home for dinner, Buck.”

            “Goddammit.” Bucky groped around on the bar until he found another full shot of tequila. “Why can’t we have fun on Friday? Huh? Fuckin’ unconstitutional, pal.”

            “It’s Wednesday.”

            “Still?” Bucky gestured to the brunette bartender, who grinned and handed him the bottle of tequila. He tipped it back and took a long swallow. “Jesus,” he said, his voice a little hoarser. “It’s been fucking Wednesday all week.” He offered the bottle to Steve, who shook his head. Bucky gave him a look that said, _prude,_ and Steve took a swig with a long-suffering sigh. “Wait,” said Bucky, frowning. “Wednesday? Aw, _shit._ ”

            “What?” said Steve, bracing himself.

            Bucky grabbed Jim by the back of his collar. “Jimbo!” he yelled. “We completely forgot! You got Bible Study tonight!”

            “Oh, god,” groaned Steve, lowering his face into his hand. Ellie Allen was going to skin Bucky alive.

 

            Steve managed to extract Bucky and his two golf buddies from the Birdie and Bogie in less than twenty minutes, which he considered a personal best. He was feeling rather smug about it until he discovered he had two sets of plastic googly eyes stuck to the back pockets of his khaki pants. There was no telling how long they had been there.

            He was seriously reconsidering protecting Bucky from Ellie Allen.

 

**O*O*O*O**

 

            Sirens and flashing ambulance lights were nothing unusual in a retirement community in Florida. Still, Steve had never gotten used to them.

            Neither had Bucky.

            Steve knew Bucky still had nightmares, still had sleepless nights, and days in which he would huddle in a corner, wringing his hands together, one metal, one flesh, until the flesh hand was raw and bleeding. Steve had, since Bucky’s surrender for the Accords, kept a mental tally of triggers. Fireworks, trucks backfiring, static, and the far-off, tinny sound of loudspeakers still wound Bucky up, widened his eyes, made him shrink back a little into himself. Unfortunately, ambulance lights had the same effect.

            The flashing red and white lights started Steve awake, and he sat up, blinking blearily, wondering how long he had been dreaming about the strobing before it had finally jolted him into consciousness. He rolled out of bed and brushed his bedroom curtains aside. The ambulance was moving slowly down the street, toward Sanibel, out of the neighborhood and presumably on its way to Sarasota Memorial.

            Steve padded through the living room and out the sliding glass door to the back yard. Sure enough, Bucky was sitting on his patio, shirtless and in his boxers, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. His left arm gleamed in the moonlight. He was staring blankly at the sky through his fruit trees.

            “Hey,” said Steve softly, leaning his shoulder on the corner of the house.

            Bucky did not reply.

            “Who was – “

            “Bill Hayes.”

            Steve’s heart sank. Bucky had just played golf with him that week. “He okay?” he asked gently.

            Bucky was quiet for a moment. He groped beside him for his lighter, sparked his cigarette. It glowed tangerine in the darkness.

            “Heart attack,” he said. His voice was hoarse. Steve pretended to believe it was the smoke.

            “That’s rough,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

            Bucky didn’t reply.

            “You talk to Amelie?”

            “She went to the hospital with him.”

            Steve nodded. Amelie and Bill Hayes were envied around the neighborhood for their close-knit marriage. “I’ll get on the horn with the committee tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll arrange food, pet care.” He paused. “You’ll do their grass, right?” Bucky was as well-known for mowing peoples’ lawns unsolicited as he was for his heavy drinking and shabby jeans.

            “Yep.” Bucky took a hit from his cigarette, still staring at the sky.

            “You gonna be okay?” asked Steve gently.

            Bucky exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Jesus, Stevie. I’m not made of glass.”

            “I know,” said Steve, feeling momentarily irritated. If Bucky would just let him _help_. Stubborn asshole.

            “Go back to bed,” said Bucky evenly. “Don’t you have an eight o’clock meeting at City Hall about the voter thing?”

            The Mayor’s Electorate Initiative … Steve had almost forgotten. “Yeah, I do,” he admitted. He straightened. “If you’re sure you’re – “

            “I’m fucking fine, Steve.”

            “Fine.” Steve shook his head and straightened. “If you need anything – “

            “Go to bed, you punk.”

            “Geez.” Steve went back inside. “Goodnight, jerk.”

            Bucky just grunted.

 

            Eight AM and the meeting at City Hall came and went. By ten, Steve wanted another cup of coffee before he started calling about Bill and Amelie Hayes. Bucky made excellent coffee, and for some reason, it always tasted better to Steve if he could drink it while he smelled Bucky’s deplorable hand-rolled cigarettes. But the Mayor and his Deputy Chief of Staff asked Steve to join them at an early lunch with the visiting top aide from the governor’s office, and he couldn’t very well refuse. After lunch, during which he and the Florida State Department’s Head of the Electoral Commission had arranged a private meeting with the Head of Drivers Services and the Coast Guard Property Reclamation Board, he managed to extract himself from the palatial and over-priced restaurant, shook hands with the governor’s long-suffering security guards, was roped into an involved discussion about state safety regimens, signed a couple of autographs, and finally made it back to his car. As he drove home to Palacios Del Mar, he wondered for perhaps the thousandth time why he had this sick compulsion to involve himself in civic affairs.

            It was now almost four. He put his sedan in the garage, closed the door, and went inside, dropping his briefcase on the kitchen counter. He was surprised Bucky hadn’t been outside, tinkering with the Barracuda. That was his usual _modus operandi_ for dealing with worry.

            He stepped out onto the back patio. No Bucky.

            He walked around the front of the duplex and tried Bucky’s door. Locked.

            He peered in the windows, expecting to see Bucky slouching around, clad only in ratty boxers, a beer in hand. Bucky was not what you’d call a health nut. But the lights were all off.

            Steve knocked on the door. No answer.

            He pulled out his phone.

            **STEVE: _Where are you?_**

            He changed, made a carafe of iced tea, and read the front page of the paper while waiting for a reply. Nothing.

            He called Myrna on the Palacios Del Mar Amity Alliance. If anyone had gossip about the Hayeses, she would.

            Bill Hayes, Myrna reported, was in critical condition. The doctors didn’t think he was going to make it. Steve added his name to the casserole list for the following Monday, thanked her, and hung up.

            One of the benefits of Bucky being a voluntarily surrendered criminal under the tenets of the Accords was that all his electronics were traceable. Steve put in a quick call to Maria Hill and got a set of coordinates. He changed into his jeans and a leather jacket and backed his Indian out of the garage, trying not to worry. This was Bucky, after all. What was he going to do, rejoin Hydra? Since his forced retirement, Bucky Barnes had turned into the consummate hedonist, his only long-term goals to see how many one-night stands he could rack up, and how many trophies he could get on the wall at the club house for winning the annual darts tournament. He wouldn’t do anything stupid.

            Well. Not anything _too_ stupid, anyway.

            Hill’s coordinates took him south of the city, into one of the less desirable neighborhoods. Steve was dismayed, but honestly not very surprised, to find himself in the pocked parking lot of a strip club sporting a large green emerald over the sign. The sun was setting, and it looked like the patrons were already starting to file in.

            Steve cut off his bike and took a deep breath. This was not a venue with which he was terribly comfortable. But when he pinged Bucky’s coordinates on Hill’s app, sure enough, the little red dot blinked cheerfully behind the Emerald Club’s doors.

            Alternately feeling like a bucket of sleaze and a Boy Scout, Steve paid the doorman the entrance fee, flashed his driver’s license, and went in, hearing the bouncer say to his buddy: “Nineteen eighteen? That’s gotta be a typo, man.” He ducked around the bead curtains into the lobby, the throbbing, bass-heavy music already threatening to give him a migraine, super-soldier serum regardless.

            The stage area was filled with cigarette smoke and the combined smells of vomit, sweat, and dirty carpet. The seating was largely dark, peppered with red-shaded lights on the tables, and the bar area was rimmed with neon lights. There were three poles with active dancers, and big-haired, topless waitresses, walking around balancing trays full of dubious drinks. Steve nodded politely at one as she passed, careful to keep his eyes on her face, though he was painfully conscious of swinging breasts and sequined pasties. He scanned the area, thinking it would be just like Bucky to have ditched his phone here and gone someplace else, just to throw him off.

            It was as though something in Steve’s psyche honed in on Bucky automatically. The curve of the shoulders, the shaggy hair under the old ball cap, and the low flash of a metal hand drew Steve in like a catfish on a line. He was relieved to note that Bucky was drinking alone. He slid onto the stool by his side.

            “Took you long enough,” said Bucky.

            Steve didn’t reply right away. Bucky looked awful, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen, the fingers of his right hand trembling a little around his shot glass. Something clear this time, maybe vodka. That was never a good sign.

            The closest stripper’s lycra boots clicked and stomped around the pole while the music pulsed. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve could see her grinding and swinging, could hear men hooting and cat-calling. He was also very aware of the many bouncers watching, meaty arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Bucky dug into one pocket, his eyes on the bar, and Steve saw the closest bouncer scrutinize him, then relax when Bucky pulled out his tobacco and rolling papers. Steve watched Bucky roll a cigarette, put his plastic baggie away, and light up. The stripper was spinning upside-down on the pole, her bleached hair fanning out around her. Bucky wasn’t even paying attention.

            “A strip club?” said Steve. “Really, Bucky?”

            “Don’t be a killjoy,” snapped Bucky. “If you got your shtekl wet every once in a while, you wouldn’t have this goddamn stick up your ass.”

            “Shtekl?” Steve was amused. “You’ve been spending too much time with Howie.”

            “Shut up,” muttered Bucky. He wiped his face and looked away. Steve sighed.

            “What’s the latest?”

            “Passed at two.”

            Steve’s heart sank. Bill Hayes had been a good friend to them both, but mostly to Bucky. “Dammit. I’m so sorry, Buck.”

            “Yeah, well.” Bucky cleared his throat, blinking. “He was gonna be seventy-eight next month. Amelie was planning – “ His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat again. “Planning a party,” he said hoarsely, and took a long, hard drag from his cigarette. “Wanted me to bartend.”

            “At the clubhouse?”

            Bucky nodded. Steve put one hand on Bucky’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. Bucky rubbed his face again and knocked back his shot.

            “What can I get for you, sugar?” asked the bartender. She, at least, was wearing what looked like two sparkling triangles over her breasts. Steve still struggled to meet her eyes.

            “Sam Adams,” he said.

            “Sure thing, baby,” she said. She cast a professional eye over his companion. “You need another, Bucky-boy?”

            “Hit me,” he said shortly, pushing the glass forward. She wordlessly refilled it from a bottle of Ketel One. “He’s with me.” He stuck a thumb at Steve.

            The bartender looked Steve up and down appraisingly. It made him nervous. “Jesus,” she only said, eyes twinkling, and went to serve the other patrons.

            “I’m still invisible,” Bucky complained, taking a sip of his vodka.

            “So I was thinking,” said Steve.

            “Come on, not again. Don’t you ever get tired of that?”

            “We keep talking about trying windsurfing, but we never get around to it.”

            The bartender put Steve’s beer down in front of him. “Anything else, hot stuff?” she purred, leaning forward so that her breasts rested on the bar in front of him.

            “No, thank you,” said Steve. His ears felt hot.

            “Windsurfing, huh?” Bucky dug out his wallet and threw a fifty on the bar. “Drink up.”

            “I just got it,” complained Steve.

            Bucky managed to grin. “Starting to like it here, Stevie?”

            “No,” said Steve. He couldn’t decide what was giving him the headache, the music and the lights, or the moral dilemma between respecting the dancers' career choices and not objectifying their bodies. “But can I at least have a minute to drink my beer?”

            “Sure thing, pal.” Bucky pulled four hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet, stood up, and called: “Simone! Angel! Candy!”

            To Steve’s consternation, the three strippers flounced and bounced over to them. “Bucky!” they all squealed, squatting down to kiss him on his cheeks and forehead. Steve looked away. He wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable looking at certain intimate parts of a woman’s anatomy, but it was disconcerting to have it hovering over his Sam Adams. He saw out of the corner of his eye that Bucky was speaking easily and familiarly with them, and instead of tucking the bills in their belts, he simply handed them over. Steve looked more closely. Bucky’s eyes were on the strippers’ faces and he was smiling, open, not a trace of self-consciousness or desire on him. The women accepted the hundred dollar bills with thanks, kissing him and fawning over him, and Steve heard him say: “Give this last one to Tawny, will ya? And tell her I hope her mom gets better.”

            “We will!” they chorused, pinching his cheeks and ruffling his hair. One of the strippers snatched off his tattered cap and put it over her scarlet mass of curls with a saucy wink, and then they all strutted off, back to their respective poles. Bucky wiped absently at his lipstick-smeared cheeks and finished his vodka. He glanced over at Steve, who was quite frankly staring in amazement, and blushed.

            “Jesus, finish your drink, Rogers,” he muttered. “We gotta get up early to get to the beach.”

            “Sure,” said Steve, nonplused and amused all at once. He drained his beer and followed Bucky out of the lounge. The bouncers fist-bumped Bucky and told him to have a good night. He knew all their names. Of course.

            He walked Bucky to his Harley, parked near the side door. “A strip club,” he said.

            Bucky shrugged. “Bill’s favorite,” he said. “The Pussy Cat and the Diamond are closer, but this place is all right. Treats the dancers better.”

            Steve stared. “Bill’s favorite? Bill Hayes?”

            “Yep.” Bucky mounted his bike. “See you at home.”

            He started up his Harley, and it roared and brapped, drowning out Steve’s disbelieving, “You think you know a guy.”

 

**O*O*O*O**

           

            The wind had picked up and blew hot and wet off the Gulf, stinging their skin with sand and salt. High white clouds scudded across the sky, and the sun pinked their shoulders and noses and made them squint. Steve, watching Bucky’s brilliant grin beneath his cheap sunglasses, reflected that windsurfing was probably a lot easier for serum-enhanced super soldiers than the rest of the populace. He wasn’t sure if that upped his gratification or not, but Bucky certainly seemed to be enjoying himself.

            By the time the sun was slanting across the water, dark yellow and peppered with the silhouettes of seagulls and pelicans, the hot dogs they had had for lunch were long gone, and they were both filled with a deep and satisfying hunger.

            They returned the boards to the rental kiosk by the dock and pulled on their crusty tee shirts. “I gotta get me one of those,” said Bucky appreciatively, running a finger down a bright blue board.

            “You just bought jet skis,” laughed Steve.

            “So?” said Bucky. “Jet skis are for the lake. This fucker’s for the open ocean.” He beamed, still riding the high of his adrenaline rush. “Tell me you don’t want one too, Stevie.”

            “Yeah, sure,” admitted Steve, shuffling into his sandals. “Come on; Mrs. Goudelock said there’s a great crab shack off 758 on Siesta.”

            “I’m gonna eat a shit-ton of hush puppies,” declared Bucky.

            “You do that,” grinned Steve.

            The little restaurant was nothing more than a shabby hole in the wall, but as Mrs. Goudelock had promised, the food was flawless. To their waitress’ amazement, they each scarfed down two jumbo platters of shrimp, grouper, and scallops, an entire basket each of hush puppies and onion rings, and five helpings of cole slaw. Three pitchers of beer, four pieces of key lime pie, and a stack of napkins later, Bucky finally declared himself full. “That,” he declared, “was perfect.” He smiled at Steve – not a cocky grin, not a sideways smirk, but a genuine, warm smile. “Thanks.”

            “You’re welcome,” said Steve, and meant it.

            The waitress came back with the check, shaking her head in amazement. “I don’t know where you put it,” she declared. “I swear to god you stowed it in your shorts.”

            “Nothin’ in these shorts but one hundred percent me, doll,” grinned Bucky. Steve rolled his eyes and picked up the check, and Bucky said, “Hey!”

            “My treat,” insisted Steve. “I’m the one on the O-10 pay scale, jerk, not you.”

            “Yeah, yeah,” said Bucky. “I gotta hit the john. Be right back.”

            “Your friend is cute,” said the waitress, taking his card. She glanced at it and added, “Steve.”

            “He thinks he is, anyway,” smiled Steve.

            “So are you,” she smirked over her shoulder, swaggering away. “Steve.”

            Steve’s mouth fell open in amazement. Usually Bucky got that kind of treatment.

            Bucky returned before the waitress did. “Bucky!” Steve hissed, leaning forward. “She flirted with me!”

            “What, her?” Bucky’s eyes tracked to the waitress, sliding up and down. “Not bad, Stevie. Pretty. I like the curvy ones, all that _avoirdupois_. More cushion for the pushin’.”

            “Jesus, Buck,” said Steve, turning pink.

            “Put your phone number on the check when you sign it,” urged Bucky. “And leave a thirty percent tip, Mr. O-10.”

            “Okay, okay,” grumbled Steve, blushing.

            The waitress’ cheeks dimpled warmly at him when she saw both tip and number, and Steve had the uncomfortable urge to change phones as soon as he got home. Bucky would give him never-ending grief for that, though. “I’m gonna take a leak,” he said on their way out. “Be a sec.”

            “Carve your measurements into the table, why don’t you,” grinned Bucky, sliding out his tobacco and rolling papers. Steve resisted the urge to flip him off, and stepped into the little men’s room.

            He blinked. The mirror was covered in adhesive googly eyes.

            “Bucky, no,” he groaned.

 

**O*O*O*O**

 

            There were a lot of veterans living in Palacios Del Mar, and Armed Forces Day was one of their favorite celebrations up at the clubhouse. The Social Committee and the Amity Alliance teamed up and threw a huge party, complete with a swing band, streamers, balloons, cake, and Bucky’s favorite, an open bar.

            Their fellow retirees had learned, within months of their strange new neighbors moving in, that Retired Command Sergeant-Major James B. Barnes was a superlative bartender. He had a seemingly encyclopedic memory for drink recipes, and a flair for creative expression. He even put together charming little virgin cocktails for visiting, underage grandchildren, complete with little umbrellas and tiny plastic swords strung with maraschino cherries. The odd occasion, when an adolescent granddaughter would sidle up to him with eyelashes fluttering and lips pouting, asking him for a “real” drink, produced a surprising result. He would frown and glower, and send the girl back to her parents with a curt and abrupt “No.” Steve would only smile and shake his head. Even Bucky had his limits.

            Not surprisingly, the crab shack waitress turned him down when he invited her to the celebration. Steve reflected that, had he known how deleterious it would be to his sex life, he would never have purchased a home in a retirement community. But it had its benefits. The party was in full swing, noisy and protracted, and he figured attendance was about at eighty per cent – far better, he thought, than an average Sunday at St. Martha’s. Even the McTavishes were there, Shirley Temples in hand, speaking with surprising animation and cheer to some of Steve’s fellow Homeowner’s Association board members. He couldn’t remember them ever looking so relaxed, and wondered if perhaps the Christian Broadcasting Network had managed to take over Florida’s airwaves and play Jerry Falwell sermons twenty-four-seven.

            He pushed his way through the noisy crowd, bumping balloons and brushing confetti off his uniform epaulettes, and made his way up to the bar. Unsurprisingly, Bucky was not in his dress blues, but was wearing tattered jeans, heavy black boots, and one of the only tee shirts in his wardrobe that contained neither a band name nor an opprobrious idiom. His hair was pulled into a messy bun, and he had a hand-rolled cigarette – unlit; smoking wasn’t permitted in the clubhouse – gummed to his lower lip. He was manning a frosty cocktail shaker for Mrs. Barrington and her daughter, who was watching the muscles in his arm with more appreciation than normal for someone waiting for a margarita. “Stevie!” crowed Bucky around his cigarette. “What can I get you?”

            “I’ll have what she’s having,” grinned Steve, pushing a ten into Bucky’s overflowing tip jar. Steve knew it would all get donated to the local Union Mission. He turned to Mrs. Barrington. “How are things, June?”

            “As well as can be expected, Steve,” said June Barrington. She eyed the way Steve fit into his uniform. “Have you met my daughter Olivia?”

            “I haven’t,” he admitted, shaking the young woman’s hand. She smirked up at him, her eyes hard and appraising. Her nails were very long and red, and her cleavage a little too on point for a military celebration at a retirement community clubhouse. He recalled hearing gossip that Mrs. Barrington’s daughter had just gotten her divorce finalized, and wished he’d been able to bring the crab shack waitress as a buffer. “You’ve moved to Florida, haven’t you? From Ohio?”

            “I did,” said Olivia. “Still looking for work.”

            “Olivia’s an accountant,” supplied June hopefully. “You have contacts, don’t you, Steve dear?”

            “I do, but not in accounting,” said Steve. “Send me your resume; I’ll see where I can pass it around.”

            “Thank you!” Olivia gushed. She looked over at Bucky, who was pouring margaritas into iced, salt-rimmed glasses. “And besides tending bar, what do _you_ do?” she purred as he handed over her drink.

            “Strip clubs and booze,” said Bucky around his cigarette. “And I play a lot of Donkey Kong.” He gestured with his head at Steve. “Much more interesting than _this_ little punk. My god, the number of committees he’s on. His waitress girlfriend never gets to see him anymore.”

            “Oh, Steve, I didn’t know you were seeing anyone!” exclaimed June, half excited by the gossip, and half disappointed in the loss of prospect for her daughter. “How wonderful! You’ll have to bring her to the pool this summer so we can all meet her.” She stuffed a couple of dollars in Bucky’s tip jar. “Thank you, James dear! See you Monday for bridge?”

            “Wouldn’t miss it, doll,” said Bucky with a wink.

            They watched the two women walk away. “Thanks, Buck,” said Steve under his breath.

            Bucky snorted. “Harpy,” he grunted. “Got a predatory look on her, doesn’t she?” He started mixing Steve’s margarita. “Where’s Lina?”

            “Doing something else,” said Steve.

            Bucky gave him a long look from beneath his hair. “Huh,” he only said, and rimmed Steve’s glass.

            Jim and Howie pushed up to the bar. “Bucky!” they both crowed, holding out their glasses. “Fill us up!”

            “How much you two idiots have already?” grinned Bucky, topping off his golf buddies’ glasses with tequila. “We on for Tuesday?”

            “Absolutely,” declared Howie. “We’ve asked Bruce Hannington to be a fourth.”

            Bucky frowned. “Hannington? Drives a Mustang? Lives on Amelia Drive?”

            “Retired Marine Sergeant,” supplied Steve, taking his margarita from Bucky. “On the finance committee.”

            “Jar-head, huh?” Bucky filled a shot glass with tequila for himself. “Well, beggars can’t be choosers, can we?” He raised the glass. “To Bill.”

            “To Bill!” chorused Howie, Jim, and Steve, and they drank. Bucky threw back the shot and poured himself another.

            “Did you hear about Amelie?” said Jim. “Her daughter’s finally convinced her to sell.”

            Steve looked at him in surprise. Amelie loved Palacios Del Mar and was very active in the community. “Really?”

            “I don’t believe it,” said Bucky flatly, throwing back another shot of tequila.

            “It’s true,” said Howie. “She told Sabra that she was tired of being badgered. Her daughter and son-in-law are moving her into an assisted living facility down in Boca.”

            “Assisted living?” scoffed Steve. “She’s only sixty! And very healthy and active. She doesn’t need an assisted living facility.”

            “Well,” said Jim, “I guess she wants to make a clean break. You know, she misses Bill a lot, and with him gone, there’s no family here for her.”

            “Dumb idea,” declared Bucky. “She’ll fade away in an assisted care home. Can’t believe she agreed to that.” He poured another shot. “Hey, Stevie, take over, will ya? I need a smoke.” He pulled out his lighter and stepped around the bar.

            “Sure,” said Steve. “Hey,” he added, taking Bucky’s arm. “She hasn’t sold yet. Maybe we can talk her out of it.”

            “Right,” said Bucky. He didn’t meet Steve’s eye. “I’ll be back in five.”

            Steve wasn’t quite the consummate bartender that Bucky was, but his smile and uniform made up for his deficiencies, and at least he still remembered how to mix martinis and Tom Collinses. He kept a professional eye on the crowd, watching for anyone who had over-imbibed, or was perhaps feeling belligerent, but so far everyone seemed very happy and well-behaved. Even the McTavishes looked like they were still enjoying themselves, and that was saying something. They came by before Bucky returned, waving empty glasses. “Can we get refills?” asked Mrs. McTavish hopefully. “These Shirley Temples are really good!”

            “Don’t know how that reprobate does it,” admitted Mr. McTavish, his broad face red and gleaming with sweat. “Must be a lifetime of slinging alcoholic beverages, but I have to admit he knows how to mix a good Shirley Temple.”

            “I’ll do my best,” promised Steve. He mixed Sprite and grenadine, and added cocktail skewers with maraschino cherries. Mrs. McTavish took a sip and made a little grimace.

            “Not as good as Mr. Barnes,” she said primly. “But I suppose it will have to do.”

            They ignored the tip jar and started to move away. Then Bucky trotted up, calling, “Hey! No, wait!”

            The McTavishes turned around. “Sorry about that,” he yelled over the noise of the crowd. “Here, give them back. I’ll fix ‘em up right for you.”

            “Thank you,” said Mr. McTavish gruffly, and Mrs. McTavish managed a pained smile.

            Steve watched in amazement as Bucky took the two Shirley Temples he had just made, dumped them into the sink, and started from scratch with clean glasses. “Just go back to whatever you were doing,” he said cheerfully to them. “I’ll send Stevie over with them when they’re done.”

            The McTavishes nodded and moved away. Steve folded his arms over his chest as Bucky mixed Sprite, grenadine, maraschino cherries, and … kirsch.

            Steve’s eyes widened. The McTavishes were religious teetotalers.

            “Bucky. No.”

            “Bucky, yes,” grinned Bucky. “Made four rounds of these already.”

            Steve covered his smile with his hand.

            “I’ve got a great hangover remedy,” Bucky added with a wink. “And I’m _not_ giving it to them.”

            Steve took the two modified Shirley Temples over to the McTavishes, trying to hide his grin. He couldn’t really disapprove of this one.

 

**O*O*O*O**

 

            Technically, Steve and Bucky didn’t _have_ to exercise, but they did feel better if they burned off some of the excess energy generated by their enhanced metabolisms with some sort of physical exertion. They both boxed at the gym, careful around any challengers, and sparred together when they got the chance. Steve was pretty sure they would never be “called up” for duty again, but sparring and boxing were fun, and got Bucky out of his own head enough to keep him smiling and cheerful. Steve had discovered that, if Bucky was left to his own devices and didn’t use up his surplus verve, bad things tended to happen.

            Steve loved to run. He liked the way his lungs filled and emptied, the pumping of his arms, the increased blood flow, the sound of his sneakers slapping the pavement. He preferred to go before sunrise, before the Florida heat got too oppressive, before the traffic snarled and buzzed around the neighborhoods. It was exhilarating and relaxing all at once, and unlike Bucky’s jet skis, didn’t require a trip to the lake.

            He jogged down Ponte Vedra Lane. Most of the duplexes’ sprinklers were going, and the spray glittered in the early morning sunlight. Cattle egrets were poking around the grass, looking for bugs, and the McTavishes’ rat terrier yipped furiously at him from their screened-in porch. He slowed to a walk, and looked contentedly at his and Bucky’s duplex. Bucky was up, sitting on the stoop in his wife-beater and jeans, barefoot, a steaming coffee mug in one hand and a cigarette gummed to his lower lip.

            “Morning,” said Steve.

            Bucky grunted.

            “How many cups?”

            Bucky held up his middle finger.

            “Right,” said Steve. “I’ll make a pot.”

            Bucky grunted again.

            Steve went inside, walked straight to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. Fewer than two cups, and Bucky was completely incoherent.

            He toweled off, contemplating an early-morning swim at the clubhouse pool before Water Aerobics started at eight. It had taken him a year to work up the nerve to put on a bathing suit and reveal his body to the rest of the retirees, and even now he was self-conscious about his size and musculature. He didn’t _think_ any of the old ladies ogled him, but … he was never really sure. Bucky, of course, sashayed around the clubhouse pool in his board shorts and plastic sunglasses, displaying body and metal arm for all to admire. He had always had more confidence than Steve in that area.

            The sun started to slant in through his windows, and it caught at something in the living room that glinted annoyingly. Steve wondered if maybe one of his certificates had shifted, and the glass was throwing back the light. He poured himself and Bucky each a mug of coffee and walked into the living room to see.

            He almost dropped the mugs. All he could do for at least thirty seconds was to stare in disbelief.

            His marlin – the big, impressive, stuffed marlin he had purchased at Mr. Moretti’s yard sale – had been painted. In bright, shiny, rainbow colors. And covered in purple glitter.

            Steve’s jaw tightened, and he actually heard, very briefly, a roaring in his ears. His marlin. HIS. MARLIN.

            He slammed the mugs onto the foyer table on his way out, sloshing coffee on the tile floor. He opened his door so abruptly that it slammed against the entryway wall. Mr. McTavish, in the process of adjusting his sprinkler heads, looked across the street in disapproving surprise. Steve didn’t care.

            “BUCKY!”

            Bucky glanced sideways up at him through the stringy fall of hair and put his cigarette to his lips, dragging in a breath. The tip of the cigarette glowed, and Bucky’s lips, curled naturally into a smirk, stretched into a sly grin.

            “WHAT,” said Steve, his fists on his hips, “did you do to MY MARLIN?”

            “You like it?” croaked Bucky, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and blowing out a stream of smoke.

            “Do I LIKE – “ Steve was temporarily rendered speechless. He turned away from Bucky, ran his hands through his sweaty hair, and bellowed: “YOU PAINTED MY MARLIN?”

            Bucky grunted and drained his coffee mug.

            “AND PUT GLITTER ON IT?”

            Both of the McTavishes were outside watching now, and Mrs. Alvarado had stepped out of her porch to see what was going on. Steve was past caring. Let them know the depths of Bucky’s perfidy. It served him right, dammit.

            Bucky apparently didn’t give a damn what either the McTavishes or Mrs. Alvarado thought of him. “It’s an improvement,” he said, hooking his metal hand around one knee and bringing his cigarette to his mouth once more. “Looks prettier now.”

            “You – “ Steve tried to shake his finger at Bucky, but gave up. “That – “ He threw his hands up into the air. “You ASSHOLE!”

            “Language, Rogers,” said Bucky mildly. He shook his mug at Steve. “Coffee ready?”

            Steve made a noise commonly written out as “ARGH!” and stormed back inside, slamming his door shut. Within moments he was back, marlin in his arms. He had taken the trash cans to the street the night before. He marched down the length of the driveway with the rainbow-glittery marlin, opened the trash can lid, threw it inside, closed the lid, and stalked back up the driveway, glaring at Bucky, breathing heavily through his nose. Bucky only raised his eyebrows at him.

            “Coffee?” he said again. Steve ignored him and went inside.

            It took him a couple of hours to calm down. After all, he had really liked that marlin, and thought it looked nice in his living room, arching gracefully over the sofa on the vaulted wall. But after a shower and answering some emails – one from Clint, asking if “the Manchurian Candidate” was up for a trip to Disney, complete with attached pictures of the kids – Steve had time to reflect. After all, it wasn’t as though he had personally caught the marlin; it was someone else’s trophy. And at least Bucky had just painted something in Steve’s house, and not gone catting around all night like he did sometimes when he was restless. Steve wondered if he could take up deep-sea fishing, and catch his own marlin. Then at least it would mean something when Bucky snuck in and covered it with sanitary napkins or lingerie or paper clips, or whatever he felt like. It would have a definite purpose as something other than a decoration.

            He heard the garbage truck roll by, then the mailman. He went out and dragged his empty trash can back to the side of the duplex, and got the mail. Bills, circulars, and an invitation to the Governor’s Ball. He wondered if Lina would go with him, then dismissed that thought and decided he would drag Bucky along. He hated wearing his dress blues. It would serve the fucker right.

            He heard music from the back yard, something old-fashioned and familiar. He passed through his side of the duplex to the sliding glass doors and opened them. Bucky was listening to Glenn Miller. “Moonlight Serenade” trilled soothingly around the patio. He stepped out to see Bucky carefully pruning his orange trees, hair tied back into a messy bun. There was a big, paper-wrapped square propped up against Steve’s grill, at least five feet across and four feet high.

            Steve glanced at Bucky, who was carefully ignoring him. All right then.

            Steve gently tore the paper aside to reveal an oil painting of the ocean in the sunlight, sea oats undulating in a breeze, clouds piled high and bright. A tiny red sailboat tacked in the distance, and in the foreground were two small children with sand pails and sun hats. It was an original, signed by the artist, someone Steve recognized as a local up-and-coming landscapist, brilliant and charming and beautiful. Steve lifted it onto the little glass-topped table and propped it against the wall to admire it.

            Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bucky watching him. Still staring at the painting, Steve said quietly, “Thank you.”

            Bucky cleared his throat. “Uh,” he said. “You, uh, wanna go to Denny’s? Get some pancakes?”

            Steve smiled. “Sure,” he said. “Let me get my shoes on.” He picked up the painting and lovingly brought it inside. The hook on the wall that had held his marlin was just the right size and tension for the painting. He pulled over a dining room chair to stand on, and hung it over the sofa, then stepped back, gloating over it. It was perfect.

            He slipped on a pair of sandals and went back out to the patio. Bucky was just putting his stepladder away, and had neatly stacked the trimmed branches by their fire pit. Steve thought perhaps they could burn them tonight and he would make hamburgers.

            “Let me wash my hands,” said Bucky, going inside. Steve followed him, a little bemused, and waited in Bucky’s disheveled living room, hearing the hiss and clunk of Bucky cleaning up for pancakes.

            Something glittered in the sunlight. He looked up. His marlin was hanging over Bucky’s fireplace, rainbow-splashed and sparkling.

 

**O*O*O*O**

           

            Despite the extra volunteers, it took longer than Steve and Father Ogenga had anticipated to get St. Martha’s set up for the additional parishioners they were expecting for the Mass the next day. He ended up staying late to help the Women’s Outreach Committee do their meal prep, carrying the heavy tables and punch bowls from the back kitchens into the rec hall. It was after midnight by the time he turned onto Ponte Vedra Lane.

            His heart sank. There was an ambulance, lights spiraling, in front of the Sandovals’ house.

            He pulled into his driveway and got out of the car, then fetched up with a start. Standing on the lightless stoop, wearing a dark shirt and jeans, stood Bucky, arms folded, staring across the street at the lights. He looked somber and subdued, and the glance he gave Steve, wide-eyed and pale, confirmed his suspicions that it was more than just a slip in the bathroom.

            Steve joined him at the stoop. He noticed Bucky was wearing his only good pair of jeans, and his hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He smelled like cigarettes and tequila, and then Steve remembered he had been at Mrs. Uribres’ granddaughter’s Quinceañera that evening. He was actually surprised Bucky had come home at all.

            “What happened?” asked Steve quietly.

            “Mrs. Sandoval lost her balance, fell off the back of their patio,” said Bucky gravely. “They think she broke her hip.”

            “Dammit,” sighed Steve. He watched their neighbors move back and forth across the Sandovals’ lawn, incongruous and rumpled in their house coats and bathrobes. “That’ll be surgery for her.”

            “Yep,” agreed Bucky.

            They stood together and watched as the ambulance eased away. Mrs. Alvarado waddled up their driveway, shaking her curlers. “Shame about this,” she puffed. Bucky held out his hand to her to steady her steps and she nodded her thanks. “Poor thing. Elma’s been so confused the past few months. And Alfred, well, I just don’t know what he’s going to do with himself now.”

            “Those two-story duplexes have too many steps,” agreed Steve.

            “Well, where have you old reprobates been tonight?” Mrs. Alvarado asked cheerfully. “Saw both of you were out.”

            “I was setting up at St. Martha’s for the Corpus Christi Mass,” said Steve. “Bucky was at a Quinceañera.”

            She gave a throaty chuckle. “You two gadabouts,” she said affectionately. “Well, I’m going back to bed. Karaoke tomorrow night, don’t forget.”

            “We’ll see you there,” promised Bucky.

            They watched her back to her house, ready to help if she stumbled, but she waved at them from her front stoop and disappeared. Steve and Bucky stood quietly in the dark. Steve could tell Bucky was restless and worried, and didn’t know how to fix himself. Bucky had never been one for self-reflection.

            “Coming to church with me tomorrow?” he asked.

            Bucky gave him a strange look. “You’re kidding.”

            “Nope,” said Steve. Bucky glowered at his feet. “I think it’ll be good for you, after everything that’s happened this month.”

            “Yeah, I need me a good dose of religion to get over those googly eyes,” said Bucky caustically.

            “Bucky, come on,” urged Steve gently. “It’ll do you good.”

            Bucky dug his little baggie out of his pocket and rolled a cigarette. Steve waited while he sealed and sparked it. He smoked in silence for a good five minutes. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough.

            “Can’t take the Eucharist. Haven’t gone to confession since 1939.”

            Steve’s smile was wry. “Father Ogenga will give you a special dispensation.” He was not about to suggest Bucky do penitence. There were too many horrors to fill up one confessional booth.

            “You sure about that?” Bucky stubbed out his cigarette and tossed it in the little coffee can he kept by the hibiscus for that purpose. “Got a shit-ton of mortal sins under my belt the past eighty years.”

            “You don’t have to take the Eucharist,” said Steve soothingly. “Just come. Give me moral support.”

            Bucky snorted at that. “’Moral,’ me?” he scoffed. “You’re dreaming, pal.”

            “Well, think about it,” said Steve, clapping him on the shoulder and unlocking his front door. “I’m leaving around nine, if you change your mind.”

            Bucky grunted.

            “Good night.”

            Bucky said nothing. When Steve glanced out his living room window a few moments later, Bucky was still standing on the front stoop, staring at the Sandovals’ house.

 

 

**O*O*O*O**

 

            When Steve knocked on Bucky’s door the next morning, there was no answer. He peered in the front window. The lights were off, and the only thing that seemed at all awake was his marlin, glittering in the early sunlight. At that angle, it almost looked as though it was laughing.

            He put on his dress uniform and drove to church. The volunteers were already busy with the logistics, guiding people to park in the bank lot next door. Steve hoped they had gotten permission beforehand; he had no desire to have his car booted.

            Normally, St. Martha’s two deacons were sufficient to assist the priest, but the extra parishioners were taxing the church’s resources. Steve was one of the laymen selected to assist with serving the Eucharist, so he sat in the pew up front.

            The big pipe organ, one of St. Martha’s nicer amenities, was put to excellent use, and the choir and cantor acquitted themselves honorably. The Monsignor delivered a nice little homily, full of mercy and forgiveness and God’s love, and Steve felt a momentary pang that he had distanced himself from the spiritual aspects of the church. He was on committees and occasionally served as lector, but it meant no more to him than the Library Board or the Homeowner’s Association. He supposed alien invasions and genetic enhancement may have had something to do with it.

            He rose with the rest of the laymen to collect his portion of the Eucharist. He was given one of the larger chalices and a white handkerchief, and stood to the side of the altar as the communicants began to file past to the low droning of the organ. Murmurs of “The body of Christ” and “The blood of Christ” whispered through the church. Steve smiled decorously and presented the chalice to each of the communicants in his line. “The blood of Christ,” he whispered, let them drink, and wiped the chalice. “The blood of Christ. The blood of Christ.”

            Two lines of parishioners filed past them, coming up the central aisle toward Father Ogenga, resplendent in his gold chasuble, his elegant, ebony head bowing and smiling and comforting. To his left stood Monsignor O’Keefe, ginger-gray and beaming. Steve’s fellow communicants took their wafers and turned, left and right, to receive the wine. Every now and then, a visiting Protestant or an unconfessed parishioner would approach the priests and bow his head, arms crossed, to receive a blessing instead. Steve smiled. The Catholic Church might not have been fully inclusive, but at least it was accepting.

            “The blood of Christ,” he murmured, over and over, like a mantra. “The blood of Christ. The blood of Christ.”

            Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark, familiar figure. He stared.

            Bucky crept forward to Father Ogenga, dress blues pressed and medals glinting. His dark hair was slicked back into a ponytail, and he looked like death. His eyes were red and puffy, set in circles so dark they were more like bruises against his pale face. Steve saw his hands, one flesh and one metal, trembling and twisting at his waist, then he raised them, and crossed them over his chest, staring at Father Ogenga’s stole, looking wrung out and empty.

            Father Ogenga smiled at him, and gently touched Bucky’s metal hand, pushing it down. Bucky looked up hesitantly, eyes anxious and forlorn, shivering. Father Ogenga took the Host in his other hand, touched Bucky’s chin. Bucky opened his mouth and closed his eyes, his whole body quivering. Father Ogenga placed the host on Bucky’s tongue, and said, surprisingly clear to Steve’s ears:

            “My son, you have confessed and been forgiven. Receive the Eucharist in peace. The body of Christ.”

            Steve jerked his attention away, seeing to the line of communicants. “The blood of Christ,” he whispered, his heart hammering. “The blood of Christ. The blood of Christ.” When Bucky stood before him, shoulders slumped and eyes turned miserably aside, Steve touched his elbow. “The blood of Christ,” he said, and held the chalice to Bucky’s lips. Bucky closed his eyes and took a sip, then turned and walked quickly away.

            The rest of the service passed like a haze for Steve. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that Bucky was sitting near the back of the church, huddled and trembling in his pew, burning eyes downcast. All the blood on his friend’s head weighed on them both. The World Security Council, the Sokovia Accords Committee, the rest of the Avengers would never wash that blood away. Steve knew that, once in the confessional, Bucky would have held nothing back; once he decided to do something, he didn’t do it halfway. But Father Ogenga had given him the Host, telling him he was forgiven.

            Steve did his duties and said his goodbyes, conscious of the dark, slouching figure hanging in the shadows by the font. The church emptied, most of the parishioners chatting in the narthex. His dress shoes clacked mournfully on the marble tile as he made his way down from the chancel to where Bucky waited.

            He stood there, looking down at his best friend. Bucky looked shredded, shattered, exhausted. Today was not a day for light jests or teasing. “Come on, Buck,” said Steve quietly. “Let’s go home.”

            Bucky only nodded and crept out of the nave, his eyes on the floor. Steve crossed himself at the font and took a deep breath. Who knew what this immolation would make Bucky do next? Just when Steve thought he had him figured out, he went and changed everything up. Typical of the asshole, really, to keep Steve on his toes like that. There might be retirement, but never repose. Not for them.

            He passed by Father Ogenga’s office to drop off an extra pamphlet, and glanced up at the big, glossy photo of Pope Benedict XVI, displayed behind glass and gilt frame, and paused, momentarily stunned.

            “Oh, Bucky,” groaned Steve, shaking his head. “You asshole.”

            His Holiness was sporting a fine set of plastic adhesive googly eyes.

 


End file.
